The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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Benedetto did not obey. Erect and severe, glowing with the invisible
rays of a dominating spirit, which kept the Under-Secretary of State at
a distance, he forced the other, through this magnetic power, to turn
towards him, to stop and to look him in the face.

"_Signor Ministro_," he said. "I am about to leave not only this palace,
but very soon, I believe, this world also. I shall not see you again;
listen to me for the last time. You are not now disposed to receive
the Truth; nevertheless, the Truth is at your door, and the hour will
come--it is not far distant, for your life is on the wane--when night
will fall upon you, upon all your power, all your honours, all your
ambitions. Then you will hear Truth calling out in the night. You can
answer 'Begone'--and you will never meet her again. You can answer
'Enter'--and you will see her appear, veiled, and breathing sweetness
through her veil. You do not now know what you will answer, nor do I
know, nor does any one in the world. Prepare yourself, by good works, to
give the right answer. Whatever your errors may be there is religion in
your soul. God has given you much power in this world; use it to good
purpose. You who were born a Catholic say you are a Protestant.
Perhaps you do not know Catholicism well enough to understand that
Protestantism is being shattered upon the dead Christ, while Catholicism
evolves by virtue of the living Christ. But now I speak to the
statesman, not, indeed, to implore him to protect the Catholic Church,
which would be a misfortune, but to tell him that though the State may
not be either Catholic or Protestant, neither may it ignore God, and you
dare to ignore Him in more than one of your schools, in those you call
high, and this in the name of freedom of science, which you confound
with freedom of thought and of speech; for thought and speech are free
to deny God, but the negation of God neither partakes nor can partake of
the nature of science, and you are bound to teach science alone. You
are well acquainted with that petty statesmanship which forces you to a
private compromise with your conscience, in order to obtain in secret
some favour from the Vatican, in which you do not believe, but you are
ill acquainted with that grand statesmanship which upholds the authority
of Him who is the eternal principle of all justice. You work harder to
destroy it than the atheistic professors themselves; for, after all, the
atheistic professors have but little power; you statesmen, who sometimes
talk of your belief in God, you undermine His authority far more deeply
than those professors, by the bad example of your practical atheism.
You who imagine you believe in the Godhead of Christ are, in reality,
prophets and priests of the false gods. You serve them, as the
idolatrous Hebrew princes served them, in high places, in the presence
of the people. You serve, in the high places, the gods of all earthly
lusts."

"_Bravo_!" interrupted the Minister, who was well known for the
austerity of his life, his domestic virtues, and his carelessness
concerning money. "You amuse me!"

And he added, turning to his friend:

"It was really not worth while."

"Understand me well!" Benedetto continued. "Yes, you also are one of
these priests. Do I then speak of ordinary revellers? I speak of you and
of others like you, who esteem yourselves honest men because you do not
plunge your hands into the coffers of the State, who esteem yourselves
moral men because you do not give yourselves up to the pleasures of the
senses. I will tell you two things: All the while you are worshipping
pleasures which are still more sinful. You make false gods of yourselves
unto yourselves; you worship the pleasure of contemplating yourselves in
all your power, in all your honours, in the admiration of the world.
To your false gods you wickedly sacrifice many human victims, and the
integrity of your own character. There is a compact among you by which
each is bound to respect his colleague's false god, and promote its
worship. The purest among you are at least guilty of this complicity.
You look away when there is a suggestion of foul conspiracies with vile
aims, or of the shameful intrigues of factions which crawl in the dark,
letting them go by in silence. You regard yourselves as incorrupt, and
you corrupt others! You distribute the public money regularly to people
who sell you their honour and the probity of their consciences. You
despise and you nurture this infamy, which goes on under the shadow of
your authority. It is more sinful to buy votes and flattery than to
sell them! You are the most corrupt of all! Your second sin is that you
consider lying a necessity of your position; you lie as you would drink
water. You lie to the people, lie to the Parliament, lie to the Crown,
lie to your adversaries, lie to your friends. I know--some of you do not
personally indulge in the general prevarication, but you tolerate it in
your colleagues. Many of you shrink from assuming this on entering the
seat of government, as, upon entering a mine, we put on a dirty dress to
protect our own and, on coming out, lay it down joyfully. But can these,
who are the best, call themselves faithful servants of Truth? You
believe in God, and perhaps on your death-bed you will believe you have
offended God most seriously, as statesmen, by your acts of violence
against the Church, in the name of the State. No, these will not be your
greatest sins. If men go into Parliament, and through Parliament into
the Government, who profess, as philosophers, not to know God, but who
rise up in the name of Truth against this arbitrary tyranny of Untruth,
they are serving God better than you and will be more pleasing to God
than you, who believe in Him as an idol and not as the Spirit of Truth,
than you who dare to talk of the putrefaction of Catholicism, you who
stink of falsity. Yes, who stink of it! You make the air of the heights
so impure, so contrary to what it should be, that it is difficult to
breathe it. You have a devout heart, _Signor Ministro_; do not tell me
that in this palace one cannot serve God."

"Do you know--" the Minister exclaimed angrily, crossing his arms
upon his breast, while the Under-Secretary of State extended his hand
graciously towards him to check the indignant words.

"Gently, gently, gently!" said he. "Allow me. I find this most
entertaining."

The Under-Secretary of State was short and round, and full of respect
for his own secretaryship, like an egg in the conscious possession of
a sacred chick. As a man he was far inferior to the Minister, and very
unlike him. He had none of the intellectual curiosity of his superior,
and had consented to be present at this interview simply to please him.
His superior, possessed of a keen wit, was in the habit of throwing his
own light now on one, now on another of the persons who revolved around
him, and, at such moments, lie was apt to believe that they shone of
themselves, as perhaps the sun may believe is the case with the orbs
that pay their court to it. The Under-Secretary of State reflected
light upon the Minister, and the Minister reflected admiration upon the
Under-Secretary of State. The Minister had desired his presence at this
interview, not comprehending that this little Mercury of his planetary
system, having resolved in his youth to free himself from the
supernatural, which hampered the most spontaneous movements of his
selfish nature, had come to hate the supernatural with much the same
hatred which the sick conceive for the man who, they know, has gloomily
diagnosed their illness. As these unfortunates seek to persuade
themselves that the prophet is not worthy of faith, and, whilst his
prophecy is gradually being fulfilled, become more and more impatient,
and struggle ever harder to overthrow that threatening authority,
so this man, the more he felt his youthful vigour declining, felt
materialistic dogmas losing credit, and from time to time perceived in
his heart certain stabbing apprehensions of a formidable truth which,
wakened by degrees, became the more embittered in his hatred hidden
beneath careless irony.

"Look here, my good sir," said he, when he had, by his words and
gesture, made room for himself in the conversation. "You talk a great
deal about false and true gods. I don't know whether yours be false or
true. He may be true, but He is certainly unreasonable. A God who made
the world as he chose, in such a way that it must wag as it does,
and then comes and tells us that we must make it wag in a different
way--well now, you know! He is certainly not a reasonable God! You have
taken the liberty to empty out a whole bagful of abuse, a bagful of
accusations against statesmen; they are calumnies, especially if you
apply them to that gentleman over there, or to me; but I am willing to
admit that politics are not a suitable business for saints. He who made
the world did not intend that they should be! He is to blame for that.
Nevertheless, some one must attend to politics. At present we are doing
this, and if we ourselves be not saints, at least you see how patiently
we deal with saints. And listen,"

The Under-Secretary looked at his watch.

"It is getting late," he said, "and saintliness may encounter some
dangers, at such a late hour, in the streets of Rome. You had better go,
now."

He stretched out his hand towards the electric bell, meaning to summon
the usher.

"_Signor Ministro!_" Benedetto exclaimed, with such vehemence that the
Under-Secretary remained motionless, his arm extended, as though frozen
in the act. "You fear for the State, for the Monarchy, for liberty,
you fear the socialists and the anarchists, but you should be far more
afraid of your colleagues, who scoff at God! for socialism and anarchism
are merely fevers, while scoffing is even as gangrene! As for you," he
added, turning to the Under-Secretary, "you deride One who is silent.
Fear His silence!"

Before either of the two potentates could speak a word, or move,
Benedetto had left the room.

* * * * *

He descended the great stairway, all quivering with the reflex action of
the words which had burst from his heart, and with the feverish fire
in his blood. His legs shook and bent under him. He was once or twice
obliged to seize the banisters and stop. On reaching the last column,
he leaned his throbbing forehead against it, seeking its coolness. But
immediately he drew away, with a feeling of repugnance for the very
stones of this palace, as if they were infected by treason, were
accomplices of the atrociously vile bargain which had been struck there
between ministers of Christ and ministers of the State. He sat down on
one of the lower steps, quite exhausted, without noticing the lighted
lamps of a carriage which was waiting close to him, doubtless the
Minister's carriage, and not caring who might see him. He breathed more
freely; his indignation was beginning to cool down and turn to sorrow,
and a desire to weep for the sad blindness of the world. Then he began
to feel so lonely, so bitterly lonely. Only she, the partner of his past
errors, had watched, had discovered, had acted. Only through her had
he been able to hold his own with the Minister, knowing what manner of
language to use with him. His other friends, the friends devoted to his
religious ideas, had slept, and were still sleeping. The bitter thought
that they no longer cared for him was pleasing to him. It was pleasant
to give himself up, for once at least, to pity for his own fate, for
once to drain the cup to the dregs, to picture his fate even more
painful and bitter than it really was. All were against him, all were
in league against him! Alone, alone, alone! And was he really strong
at heart? That man up there, that Minister who possessed genius
and personal kindliness--what if he were right, after all? What if
Catholicism were really past healing? Lo! the Lord Himself, the Lord he
had served, the Lord who had struck down his body, and delivered him
into the power of his enemies, now was abandoning his soul. Anguish,
mortal anguish! He longed to die on that very spot and to be at peace.

Above him he heard the voices of the Minister and the Under-Secretary,
who were coming down. Benedetto rose with an effort, and dragged himself
into the street. On the left, a few paces beyond the door, he saw
another carriage waiting. A servant in livery stood on the sidewalk
talking with the coachman. When Benedetto appeared the servant hastened
towards him. In the gaslight, Benedetto recognised the old Roman from
Villa Diedo, the footman of the Dessalles. It suddenly flashed across
his troubled brain that Jeanne was there in the carriage, waiting for
him, and he started back a step.

"No," said he. Meanwhile the carriage had moved forward; Benedetto
imagined he saw Jeanne, that he was being forced to get into the
carriage with her, and that he had not the strength to resist. Seized
with giddiness he staggered back again, and would have fallen had the
footman not caught him in his arms. He found himself in the carriage
without knowing how he had got there, with an unpleasant bright light
opposite to him, and a loud buzzing in his ears. Little by little he
understood. He was alone; an acetylene lamp was shining in his face. The
door on his right was open and the footman was speaking to him. What was
he saying? Where should they drive? To Villa Mayda? Yes, certainly, to
Villa Mayda. Could not that light be extinguished? The servant put it
out, and spoke of a paper. What paper? A paper the Signora had placed
in the inside pocket of the _coupe_, ordering him to give it to the
gentleman. Benedetto did not understand, or see. The footman took the
paper and slipped it into Benedetto's pocket. Then he inquired about the
gentleman's health, as his masters--this time he said 'his masters'--had
ordered him to do. If he had seen him lying dead this scrupulous
individual would have carried out the order just the same. Instead of
answering, Benedetto begged that a little water might be brought to him.
The footman fetched some from a neighbouring _cafe_ and Benedetto drank
it eagerly, experiencing great relief. As he took the empty cup from
him, the footman thought it best to complete his message:

"The Signora ordered me to tell you, if you inquired, that they sent the
carriage because they knew you were not well, and they thought that in
this place and at this hour it would be impossible for you to find one."

* * * * *

The _coupe_ had excellent springs and rubber tires. What a rest it
was for Benedetto to roll along thus, silently, alone in a dark soft
carriage, in the heart of the night! From time to time vistas of bright
streets loomed on the right and on the left, and this was painful
to him, as if those long rows of lights had been his enemies. But
immediately there came back the darkness of the narrow streets and the
flight, on footpaths and houses, of the unsteady lights of the _coupe_.
The coachman set the horse to a walking pace, and Benedetto looked out
into the darkness. It seemed to him they had just begun to ascend the
Aventine Hill. He felt better; the fever, intensified by the physical
and moral strain of that night of strife, was now rapidly decreasing.
Then, for the first time, he perceived the subtle perfume of the
_coupe_, the perfume Jeanne always used, and there rushed upon him the
vivid memory of the return from Praglia with her, of the moment when,
having left her at the foot of the hill leading to Villa Diedo, he had
gone on alone in the victoria which was still filled with her warmth and
her perfume, alone, and intoxicated with his love secret. Terrified at
the vividness of these memories he pressed his arms to his breast, and
strove to withdraw himself from his senses and his memory, into the very
centre of his being. He gasped, with parted lips, unable to banish
that image from his inner vision. And others flashed through his mind,
leaving his unyielding will unconquered, but causing it to tremble like
a tightly drawn rope. Now it was the idea that only Jeanne really loved
him, that only Jeanne suffered through his suffering. Now it was her
voice, complaining that her love was not returned, her voice asking for
love, in the tones of a little song by Saint-Saens, so sweet, so sad,
and familiar to them both, and concerning which he had once said to her
at Villa Diedo that he could never refuse anything to one who prayed
thus. Now it was the idea of fleeing far, far away and for ever, from
this pagan and pharisaical Rome. Again it was a vision of peace and pure
converse with the woman whom he would win over to the faith at last. It
was an ardent desire to say to the Lord:--"The world is too sad, let me
adore Thee thus." Then there came the thought that in all this there was
no sin, there was no sin in abandoning his mission in the presence of
so many enemies. He began to doubt whether he really had any mission
at all, whether he had not rather yielded to deceitful suggestions,
believed in the reality of phantoms, and been deceived by chance
appearances. He saw the spiritual and moral features of his friends
and disciples, deformed as in a convex mirror; he felt a disheartening
certainty that all he had hoped of them was vain. Then again that sad,
tender little song returned, no longer beseeching but full of pity, of a
pity comprehending all his bitter struggle, the sorrowing pity of some
unknown spirit that was also suffering and complaining of God, but
humbly, gently, pleading for all that suffers and loves in the world.

The carriage stopped at a cross-way, and the footman got down from
the box and approached the window. It seemed that neither he nor the
coachman knew exactly where this Villa Mayda was. On the right, a narrow
lane sloped down between two walls. Behind the higher one, on the left,
huge black trees rustled loudly in the west wind, which had torn the
clouds asunder. In the background, the Janiculum and St. Peter's loomed
black in the pale starlight. It was a narrow footpath. Was that where
the Signore must get out to go to Villa Mayda? No, but the Signore was
determined to get out at any cost, to quit that poisoned carriage. He
dragged himself as far as Sant' Anselmo, struggling with his poor weak
body and with the wind. Exhausted once more, he thought of asking the
monks for hospitality, but did not do so. He went down, skirting the
great silent refuge of peace belonging to the Benedictines, passed,
sighing, before the closed door, which said in vain _quieti et amicis_,
and at last reached the gate of Villa Mayda.

The gardener came, half dressed, to open the gate, and was greatly
astonished to see him. He said he had believed he was in prison, because
a _delegato_ and a policeman had been there to look for him at about
nine o'clock. Indeed the _Signora_, the Professor's daughter-in-law, had
at once ordered the servants not to admit him if he returned, but the
order had been angrily countermanded by the Professor himself, to the
great joy of the gardener, who was as fond of Benedetto and of the
master as he was averse to the _Signora_. Upon hearing this Benedetto
would have departed at once had his strength allowed him. But he was not
in a condition to go a hundred paces.

"It will be for this one night only," he said.

He occupied a small room in the gardener's little house. He had hoped,
on entering it, to find the peace of the heart, but it was not to be.
They were driving him away even from here: that was what he said in his
heart to his poor little bed, to the poor furniture, to the few books,
to the smoky tallow-candle. Fixing his eyes on the Crucifix, which hung
above a footstool at the side of the bed, he groaned, with an effort of
his will: "How can I complain so bitterly of my crosses, Lord?"

In vain; his spirit had no living sense either of Christ or of the
Cross. He sat down in despair, not wishing to go to bed in this mood,
waiting for a drop of sweetness, which did not come. A gust of wind made
him turn his head towards the window, which had burst open. He saw a
great planet tip there in the brilliant sky, above the black battlements
of Porta San Paolo, and. the black summit of the pyramid of Cestio,
above the tops of the cypresses which surround the tomb of Shelley. The
wind howled around the little house. Oh! that night in the asylum, where
his wife was dying, and the shrieks of the violent patients, and the
great planet!

Bending his head, heavy with grief, he happened to notice the paper
which the footman had placed in his pocket. It was a large black-edged
envelope. He opened it, and read the name and titles of his poor old
mother-in-law, the Marchesa Nene Seremin, and the simple words that
followed:

"IN PEACE."

He was as one turned to stone, holding the open, sheet in his hand, his
eyes fixed on the words. Then his hands began to tremble, and from his
hands trembling rose to his breast, growing more and more violent till a
storm of tears burst from his eyes.

He wept as many memories came to his mind, some sad, some sweet, brought
back to him by the poor dead woman. He wept with his eyes fixed upon the
crucifix, upon Christ, to whom in her last moments she surely yielded
herself up with the fullest confidence, like that other dear one, like
his Elisa; he wept in gratitude to her, who even from that unknown world
was kind to him, and softened his heart. He recalled the last words he
had heard her speak: "Then shall we never meet again?" In his prophetic
soul he smiled, turned to the open window, and gazed upon the great
planet.

CHAPTER VIII

JEANNE

A small band of workmen was coming towards Via della Marmorata, It
was about noon, and they had been at work on a house in course of
construction in Via Galvani. Seeing little groups of people standing
under the trees, other little groups at the doors, and people also at
the windows of the two last houses on the right and left, a workman, who
was following the others at a short distance, called out in a loud voice
to his companions:

"What a lot of fools for one knave!"

A big, bearded man, who was standing on the threshold of a small shop,
heard this, and, coming forward, accosted him threateningly."

"What's that you say?"

The other stopped and stared at him, answering mockingly:

"Get out! Just what I please!"

The big man struck him a blow, and then the other workmen fell upon
the big man in defence of their comrade. Cries, oaths, the flashing of
knives, the shrieks of women from the windows, people rushing up from
the avenue, policemen and guards hurrying to the spot; in an instant the
whole street was in a black ferment, while the surging, howling mob was
pitching from right to left and from left to right, as if the street
were a ship in an angry sea. Two yards from the spot where the guards
and the workmen were struggling, it would have been difficult to
ascertain what had happened. The crowd was blind in its fury against
those who had insulted the Saint. Who these were they did not know; a
hundred discordant voices called for the blood of the big man, of the
workmen, of the guards, of one who had laughed, of one who had tried to
make peace, and of one who was using his elbows to work his way forward,
as well as of one who was trying to elbow his way out. The driver of a
tram on the San Paolo line, passing Via Galvani, saw the tumult, and
amused himself by calling out to a group of women, a hundred yards
beyond, that the Saint of Jenne had been discovered in Via Galvani. The
rumour ran along the avenues, full of chattering groups and isolated
onlookers, as fire along a trail of powder. The groups broke up, the
people rushed towards Via Galvani, questioning one another as they
ran. The isolated onlookers followed more slowly, more cautiously, and
presently saw many vexed faces returning. The Saint indeed! It was only
one of the usual false alarms. Some one saw people coming down in haste
from Sant' Anselmo. Another report went round: they are from Villa
Mayda, they are sure to know! And people come from right and left, all
hastening towards the mouth of Via di Santa Sabina, as pigeons hasten
towards a handful of corn. The isolated onlookers follow, more slowly,
more cautiously. _Che_! Nonsense! At Villa Mayda nothing is known, and
they will not even answer any more questions, for they are exasperated
by the procession of people ringing the bell. A squad of _carabinieri_
comes upon the scene, and charges down Via Galvani in serried ranks.
Hisses are heard, and angry cries: "They know! They took him away!" "No"
shouts a woman who sells fruit, and who was one of a group on the corner
of Via Alessandro Volta. "It was a _delegato_! It was the police!" The
members of that group are less enraged with the _delegato_ and the
policemen than with the stupid bystanders, who might easily have thrown
_delegato_, policemen, cab, horse and driver into the river, and,
instead, had allowed themselves to be dispersed by a few words and a few
drops of water! The little old woman who had brought Benedetto to the
unfrocked monk was there also. They stop her as she is coming out of the
bakers' shop, and now she is telling for the hundredth time the story of
the arrest, and crying, also for the hundredth time, as she tells of the
roses, of the pious words, and describes how very ill the Saint looked.
Her audience is moved also, and mumbles praises of the Saint. One
relates a miraculous cure he has effected, another tells of a second
cure; one mentions his way of speaking, which goes to the heart; another
praises his face, which is as good as a sermon; one speaks of his
poverty, and another tells of his charities, which are many, in spite of
his poverty. There they come from Via Galvani, _carabinieri_, policemen,
prisoners, and the crowd. One of the solitary onlookers, moved by
curiosity, approaches another spectator, and inquired what has occurred
in the district. The other is in complete ignorance. The two join
company, and question a citizen, who appears to have had enough of it;
to be about to leave. The citizen replies that up there at a villa near
Sant' Anselmo lives a holy man, who is adored by the whole quarter,
because he visits the sick, healing many, and talking of religion better
than the priests themselves: so they call him "the Saint"; or rather,
"the Saint of Jenne," because he performed many miracles in a town in
the hills, called Jenne. Why, even the newspapers talked of him! Last
night, while he was ministering to a poor sick man, the police carried
him off, no one knows why. It was reported that he had been set free
again, and had returned to the villa, where he was gardener, but at the
villa they deny that he is still there, and will give no explanation.
The people are excited, they want----

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